


the truth hurts worse (than anything I could bring myself to do to you)

by asexualizing (Specialcookies)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drugs, Episode: The Abominable Bride, M/M, Mind Palace, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-12 01:13:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5648368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Specialcookies/pseuds/asexualizing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>“You’re here.”</em><br/> <br/><em>“Yes. Are you?”</em></p><p>Sherlock's dreaming. Again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the truth hurts worse (than anything I could bring myself to do to you)

**Author's Note:**

> this is just a small piece to get stuff of my chest so I can write about bigger stuff basically. also i didn't want to get involved with plot just yet but i wanted to have this written so. ANYWAY i'll stop apologizing for this.

They’re on a bed. His bed. He’s naked. That’s good.

How long have they been here? Doesn’t matter. John’s been _doing things._ He can’t remember.

“John,” he gasps, clawing at John’s shoulders. “John,” again, louder, as John sucks on his right nipple, adding some scrap of teeth, his hand, palm flat, rubbing the left one, and Sherlock arches his back, legs spreading wider, moans, “John.”

“Shh…” John murmurs, mouth moving to Sherlock’s collarbone, teasing with the hints of a mark, and Sherlock rubbs his cock against the hard thigh pressing against him, body twisting involuntarily. He needs him to --

“John.”

John stops –   _no no, why, no_ – lifts his head and shakes it apologetically. “I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t – It’s just – your skin is so _soft._ ” He dips down for a kiss, and Sherlock opens his mouth, unable to breathe, unable to ask him for what he wants, unable to ask why the hell shouldn’t he. John nibbles at his lower lip, hand sliding to his waist where he rubs circles with a feather-light touch, making Sherlock buck.

“John.”

“I’ve never heard you say my name so many times.” He smiles against Sherlock’s lips. “It’s...rather nice.”

Why would – It’s not –

Then John goes for his neck, and all lines of thought vanish.

“You like that,” John says, licking a line along Sherlock’s visible artery. Obvious. _Obvious_. “I can’t imagine what it’d be like to bruise you.”

“You don’t – “ Sherlock tries, fails, “ _John_.”

“Shh…” John soothes him, strokes his hair. “Someone will hear.”

“What are you – Is this about – “ It’s not _right_ , and he can’t tell what’s off. Everything’s normal, everything’s in its place, these are the sheets he changed to before leaving to his parent’s house. John’s normal, except he’s not, and Sherlock doesn’t _understand._ He came back, he woke up, he doesn’t know how they got here but it’s _real_ , and John’s just –

“Holmes?”

No. No.

“What is the matter?”

No. No. Get out. Go away.

“Speak to me.”

It’s not _right_ , he’s not there anymore, this is _his_ John, he can’t be –

“Holmes!”

He can’t go back, he can’t go back, not right now, please, please, not right now --

“John.”

“I’m here.”

_Not you._

“John.”

Come back. Come back. Come back.

He’s aware he’s thrashing but he can’t stop. The John that’s above him at the moment is trying to hold him down, his hands are warm and callous and real but they were real just moments ago and he can’t tell the worlds apart again. John will kill him. He’ll absolutely kill him. How did he even agree to –

“Sherlock?”

 _Yes_.

“Hey, hey – ”

Hands again. Real. Right. Yes. Come back.

“John.”

“I’m here.”

“Are you?”

“What do you mean – Shit, Sherlock – “ Panic. Fear. Wrong. “Look at me.”

He tries. John’s standing. When did this happen?

“I told you we should’ve gotten to a hospital!” he barks, but not – not at Sherlock – why would there be – “And he wanted to _work_ ,” he grumbles to himself, takes a sit on the bed. “Sherlock.” A soft voice, hand running down his face. _Finally._

“You’re here.”

“Yes. Are you?”

“Yes. Yes. Can we – “

“It’ll wear off.” Sherlock snaps his head to the source of the sound. He can’t focus on the silhouette that’s standing at the entrance to his room.

John withdraws his hand, sharp and quick, and Sherlock knows. John sighs, discontent, and Sherlock wants to hurl. He tries to sit up, but John stops him. 

“No, lie down. Give me that,” he says to Mary, and soon enough, he’s holding a glass of water to Sherlock’s lips and the smell of Clair De La Lune fills Sherlock’s nostrils. Sherlock drinks, messily, clumsily, and John holds his head up for him. Mary stands by his bedside.

“Good,” John murmurs, “Good. Better?” he asks when Sherlock’s done.

Not at all. Not even a little bit.

Sherlock shuts his eyes tightly, but John’s waiting for him to answer, so he nods.

“Let me up,” he says, tries to do just that again. John’s hand on his chest is hesitant, but nonetheless there.

“Lie. Down. What do you remember?”

“What do you mean what do I remember? We’ve been -- “

He looks up, at Mary, who has an eyebrow raised at him, then back to John, whose brows are furrowed, and down, at himself, and he’s -- oh. He’s not naked. Not at all.

“Let me up,” he demands, shakes John off.

“Sherlock – “ That’s Mary.

“Let me up!” he nearly shouts. “And get out.”

“No,” John’s voice is firm. “What do you remember?”

“What does it matter? I assume I blacked out?” Their faces confirm that much. He takes a deep breath. “I’m fine now.”

“You were fine when we got off the plane as well,” Mary says. He doesn’t _want_ to hear her voice right now. It was better when –

“Well, it’s probably been a few hours since then, so you can rest assured I’m _perfectly_ fine right now.”

“Stop lying.” John growls through gritted teeth.

“Why would I be lying?” he shoves the duvet off of himself, making John jump off the bed in an attempt to not be _shoved_ off it in the process.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you’ve taken an overdose to solve a hundreds of years old case, and now you’re going to kill yourself figuring Moriarty out, again.”

John’s left hand is clenching and unclenching at his side, his nose flared and his lips pursed. Sherlock can’t believe, sometimes, that he doesn’t _see_. The way Sherlock’s trembling when he leans over his shoulder, or pats his arm. The way Sherlock looks at him. The way he struggled to swallow at his wedding. The way everything is about him, every damnable thing that Sherlock ever wanted or never wanted at all, never asked for, never dreamed of. Can’t believe that he is so blind as to believe himself, as to believe Sherlock. It’s a relief, most of the time, but then, it’s not. It’s horribly not.

“That’s the reason I’m here, isn’t it? Got pardoned to save the country. So let me do my job.”

“As your Doctor – “

“Oh, as my Doctor, I do apologize for being so rude, I didn’t realize you were speaking as my Doc – ”

“Don’t treat me like you treat your brother.” John’s breathing hard now, so hard his chest seems to be struggling to keep up. He’s glaring at Sherlock, ignoring the fact Mary snack out of the room quietly when they started arguing, made unusually uncomfortable by them.

Sherlock snaps his mouth shut.

“I’m not going to stop at lists. I’m not going to stop at keeping you alive. I’m not going to stop at anything but you being clean. You get that?”

“I told you, it was controlled – “

“Controlled usage, yeah. You know what? I’ve been there before.” He shakes his head. “Not this time. It wasn’t a one-off. You weren’t undercover. It’s not controlled. So shut up, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. You’re not fit to run around. You’re staying here until you are.”

His heart is beating so fast it hurts. John’s just a few meters away, and he can’t reach out. John’s talking, _finally_ talking straight to him, not dancing around, and he can’t reply. He swallows, ruffles his own hair. If he’ll close his eyes, he’ll feel John’s hands on him again. If he’ll keep them open, he’ll get reality.

“I need to pee.”

“What?”

“You’ve heard me.”

John blinks. “Yeah, al – alright.” He gestures towards the ensuite with his hand, the fingers of the other one pinching the bridge of his nose.

Sherlock gets up carefully, stumbles to the loos. He shuts the door behind him and leans on it, running his hands over his face. It’s never going to be easy again. It never was. He sighs. Is it the first time he hallucinated John like that? No, probably not. It is the first time he couldn’t tell it’s not real, though. He smooths a hand over the crinkles in his suit jacket, and resists the urge to bang his head against the door.

“So you don’t mind?” he asks, going to the sink, running the water in it. He needs to not think about that.

“What?” John asks, taken aback.

“That he’s out there, and we’re not?”

“He’s dead. You said so.”

“Well, something’s out there.”

He washes his face, looks in the mirror as the water drips down.

“Where’s Mary?”

Mary, Mary, Mary…

“Probably at Mrs. Hudson’s.”

“Oh.”

“You didn’t answer.”

Silence. Sherlock dries his face, picks up his toothbrush. He rinses out the toothpaste before John answers.

“I told you what I mind.”

Sherlock closes the tap, straightens his back. He feels dizzy, but that’s not the worst of it. He can handle dizzy. He can handle much more. It’s the persistent lump in his throat that’s bothering him. It’s the pricklish feel on his skin. It’s the fact he was out and then he wasn’t and now can he be sure, really, that he isn’t falling back in? It seemed so normal, so natural. There were definitely telltales, and yet. Is he really that desperate as to miss them all, or is he just high enough to not care? Oh, hell, what does it even matter.

He opens the door, intending to go back to the bed, but gets John’s arms around him when he falls instead.

“We have time,” John says, picks him up, face inches away from Sherlock’s. _Fuck._

“We really don’t.” 

“Tell me, then,” he pleads, and the funny thing is, he never knows what he’s asking of Sherlock. 

Sherlock spends a moment looking at him, his eyes searching Sherlock’s face for something, his tongue darting out to lick his chapped lips, and he looks calm, after so long, calm. This must be real. This must be.

  
He thinks, _I love you._  He says: “Sit down.”

**Author's Note:**

> i have a [tumblr](http://www.asexualizing.tumblr.com) if you want me!


End file.
